by D R Sanford
Jorge cracked out, “Okay.”
“Good, now please stand up.”
Cullen let Jorge pull himself up using the chair and even assisted with a little upward pressure on the ear. Jorge handed over the cell phone and stood still while Cullen powered it down. He pocketed the cell in his slacks and sat on the desk. Motioning for Jorge to take a seat, Cullen leaned over to the desk phone and unplugged the incoming land line before flinging the cord onto the floor.
“So, George, let's say you invited me here to share information that could prove vital to solving Nora's murder case. Please, tell me what you know and how you came to know it.”
Jorge looked up at Cullen and then the door, apparently hoping someone would enter and save him. Cullen snapped his fingers again and feinted for Jorge's reddening ear.
“Your turn, George.”
“Okay, okay,” he said, ducking from Cullen's hand. “But look, you have to understand, I just tripped over this last week. I had nothing to do with your wife's disappearance.”
“You're saying I should trust you?”
Jorge fidgeted in the chair, looking everywhere but into Cullen's eyes. This guy really needed to lay off the energy drinks.
“Okay, so I haven't been the most trustworthy, but it's good info.”
“And then what? You were going to drain my savings and fly off with your girlfriend? What about sticking around for an arrest and trial?”
“No way, man. Not after I confirmed where the information was coming from.”
“You're not getting to the point.”
“Do you think I would still be eligible for the ten thousand dollar reward?”
Cullen knew his captive audience could be cut short at any moment and replied, “I think I can guarantee my foot alongside your head if you don't start talking.”
Jorge raised his hands in surrender and pointed a finger at a computer monitor.
“Good point. If you let me get on the network, I can do even better by showing you.”
Cullen weighed the risks but figured he could stop Jorge from sending up any red flags. “Alright, go ahead.”
Jorge spun his chair to face the desk, deactivated the screensaver, and typed in a password to gain access to the network. Cullen sidled over to see the screen, keeping close contact with his prisoner.
“So, our financial year is ending pretty soon. I have to run final reports purging those patients’ records that fall outside our recordkeeping timeframe and records for those who are deceased. It’s all based on social security numbers. I merged a list, including your wife, to our database and came up with this.”
After quickly navigating through a maze of network drives and folders within folders, he opened a database on a spreadsheet pivot table.
Cullen had never quite wrapped his brain around a pivot table's functions but knew they were great tools for mining large sets of information. Jorge filtered out the surname Houltersund and dragged his finger along two rows that carried Nora's basic records.
A little confused about what he was looking at, Cullen asked, “What am I looking for?”
“Hold on a sec’, and let me spread it out.”
He maximized the screen to cover two twenty inch monitors. On the left monitor everything was identical. Cullen saw their names, birth dates, address, and other essential data. A stream of appointments and test results followed.
It reminded him of the two years they took on progressively invasive procedures while the hopes of conceiving grew dimmer.
By the time they reached December 12th they were on the right side monitor. That was the last visit Cullen remembered, but it was not the last one shown. December 22nd showed a negative pregnancy test on the upper row, whereas the bottom row listed positive results.
The final record, for January 17th, was described as a hormone test on the top row, but the corresponding record below it declared: ‘DNA Positive, Secure Subject’.
Five days before Nora’s abduction. The bottom row continued, and Cullen felt a pit of unease growing within.
His general desire for order asserted itself as he asked, “How can you be sure they’re both Nora. Couldn’t her social have been miss-keyed, forcing duplication with someone else?”
Jorge picked up an open can of energy drink and jiggled it. Disappointed that it was empty he set it down on the desk and responded.
“I considered that too. It’s the easiest explanation. So, I checked out the commands that pulled from available databases and back tracked the data. The top row comes from our clinic’s records. The other is generated from the facility that manages our blood and hormone tests.”
“Are you saying the lab was reporting false data? How would you even have access to it? I mean, wouldn’t they cover their tracks on something like that?”
At that, Jorge grew very animated. He shed his timid personality and erratically shook his forefingers in the air.
“Oh, they cover their tracks alright, but I installed background programs that pull from sources outside of public records.”
“That doesn’t sound legal.”
“Let's call them productivity-increasing software bundles.”
Cullen hardly believed the audacity of the man sitting before him. Decked out in floppy shoes, baggy clothes and tousled hair, he may have been smart with computers but appeared rather deficient in common sense.
“You're mining confidential data on the sly. For what purpose?”
“Hey, don't judge. I practically paid my way through college doing background checks on sorority girls' boyfriends. And besides, where would you be now if I hadn't found this?”
Cullen thought of that for a moment and decided he really didn't care about Jorge's illicit hobbies.
“Let's get back to Nora. What convinces you that she's alive?”
Jorge pointed to the screen, dragging his finger along the row after January 17th.
January 23rd, Subject Secured.
January 24th, Conception Confirmed.
January 28th, Subject Sedated.
An entire litany of prenatal care leading to Jorge's finger poised on the record for May 14th.
Ultrasound, Healthy Male.
Earth's gravity seemed to have tripled, pulling his insides to the floor. Cullen held onto the desk's edge and fought the sense of vertigo threatening to overwhelm him.
“Congratulations, prof.”
Cullen blinked at him, wondering for a moment where he was and when he would wake up. Jorge's left hand rose and waved before Cullen's eyes.
“Dude, are you gonna pass out or something? Please don't barf in here. It sucks trying to clean that out of keyboards.”
Jorge cleared some space in front of him and moved out of the chair. The next thing Cullen knew he was being deposited on the office chair and told to put his head down. He complied, resting his head on his forearms and trying to sort out what he'd learned.
The enormity of Jorge's assertions defied plausibility. What could possibly be the intention behind abducting pregnant women and their unborn children?
Still confused but feeling stable, Cullen sat up in the chair. He saw Jorge sitting on the desk's edge, concern on his face, and regarded him with more respect than when he'd been ready to inflict pain on the man. Cullen was still speechless, and it must have shown, because Jorge jump started the conversation again.
“You okay now?” he asked. Cullen nodded. “Alright, one more thing, and then I have to get the hell out of here.”
Jorge slipped by the chair, caught the computer's mouse, and scrolled back to the entries for late January. He clicked on the hyper-linked codes for Subject Secured, Conception Confirmed, and Subject Sedated. Three new windows popped up displaying an interface for the laboratory providing medical testing.
The name Cornerstone Labs topped each window. More detailed information spread across the screen, but Jorge's cursor traveled over all three , pointing out the username for the person entering the records.
Cullen's s
calp tingled along the line of scar tissue on the back of his head. He recalled with great clarity the night he lost Nora, being forced supine on the floor and seizing with electrical current.
Then came the moment he'd learned first-hand that Nora was sadistically killed and mutilated for no apparent reason.
A cold, hard resolve coalesced inside. It pushed aside consequences and filled Cullen with a singular purpose.
Revenge.
—Chapter 8—
THE HUNT
Plans developed in Cullen’s mind as he walked back to the office. He had left Jorge with a sizable check and urged him to cash it soon.
Both acknowledged that the shit was going to hit the proverbial fan and went their separate ways.
He struggled to keep his pace to a walk while approaching Dixon Hall and climbing the stairs to the Anthropology department. Cullen slipped into his office to retrieve his car keys from the desk drawer.
Intending to speak with his mother, Cullen knocked on her office door, but no one answered. He swung the door inward to find the room unoccupied.
On the way out of the building he pulled Jorge’s cell phone from his pocket, received a number from 411, and placed a call. After being transferred to another line and a few rings, Cullen heard the voice of his quarry and hung up.
A quick stop at home for a change of clothes and a duffel bag of essentials set him up for the hunt. The preparations recalled shades of his boyhood years.
He remembered accompanying his mother on many trips throughout the world. She busied herself documenting tribal religions and the similarities in belief structures. He fought off boredom by learning enough of the local dialects to play with the village boys.
Between the ages of seven and fifteen, Cullen had joined in numerous hunts and even participated in several coming-of-age ceremonies.
By village standards he was a man, but his mother demanded their return to civilization after the day he was blamed for killing a villager’s dog that had attacked him. From that day forward their lives centered on academics and relative anonymity. No more would he tussle with the boys or roam the plains and jungles for prey.
After a lifetime removed from that world, Cullen barely remembered those years or the wild boy he was growing into.
His mother did her best to scrub that from him, and Nora washed away the rest of his wildness, calming his predatory instincts.
A thousand times Cullen had replayed the night of his wife’s abduction. In every fantasy he pulled the trigger, exactly what the wild boy in him would have done had he been in control.
Cullen began a new hunt, well aware of the stakes this time, and said a silent prayer to a myriad of old gods as he drove the streets of his peaceful town.
***
After patiently waiting in his Nissan SUV, through the afternoon and into the evening, Cullen picked up the trail of his target. It led downtown to a popular Irish pub, The Drunken Boar.
He remained in the vehicle, allowing nearly half an hour to pass and decided to move in on foot. Sidewalk traffic was increasing during the dinner hours. He passed by couples out for a walk, heading to an early meal, and groups of college students determined to party hard before classes started a few days later.
The pub’s interior was dark, making it difficult for him to make out any details. Cullen ducked inside and examined a bulletin board adjacent to the door, keeping his back to the crowd and giving his eyes a chance to adjust. He spotted an open table in the darkest corner and seated himself where he could take in the entire establishment.
Busy for a Monday night, with loads of students arriving in town to set up residence for the year. Younger patrons mingled in standing groups or huddled around tables. Those who frequented the pub sat along the bar nursing pints and eating nuts while gazing up at flat screen televisions broadcasting live sports and highlight reels.
A waitress approached the table to take his order, and out of habit he requested any one of Wisconsin’s many microbrews they were bound to offer on tap. The music was thankfully light so early in the evening. People didn't have to shout to carry a conversation, and Cullen wasn't bombarded by noise as he scanned the crowd.
At the far end of the bar he identified the man he sought, the one he was now confident had carried out the raid on his house.
Before long, a commercial aired on the baseball game the detective was watching. Picking up a pack of cigarettes from the bar, he spun off his stool and headed for the rear patio. Cullen leaned forward, ready to move, but halted when he saw the man light a cigarette and chat with other smokers outside.
After a few minutes everyone else snuffed their cigarettes and re-entered the bar room. Cullen took a deep breath and made his way to the patio, holding his glass in one hand and keeping the other in the pocket of his hooded sweatshirt.
Detective Walker faced away, gazing into the dark and the flowing river beyond the railing. Cullen balanced on the edge of indecision. The following events would forever change his life, and odds of a positive outcome were not in his favor.
“Good evening, Mr. Houltersund.”
The greeting was dry. Not a hint of surprise. Cullen had lost the initial advantage and fought off the urge to turn and flee. Instead, he screwed up his courage, focusing on the plan.
He stepped within arm’s length of the detective, keeping a close eye for any movements but saw no signs of tension. Extending the Kahr .45 before him, Cullen pressed the muzzle into the small of Walker's back and ordered him to turn around. His nemesis slowly obliged, holding a lit cigarette in one hand and a tumbler of amber colored liquor in the other.
Walker settled both hands along the railing while scrutinizing Cullen.
“You did a fine job of following me this afternoon, Cullen. Where did you pick me up, the police station?”
Cullen nodded and replied, “At what point did you know I was tracking you?”
“Oh, let's see, I'd say your truck was suspicious while you waited around the corner of the gas station, but you blew it when I saw the same vehicle trailing me after I left the dry cleaner I didn't need to visit. Don't feel bad, though. I've been at this game a very long time.”
He smiled down on Cullen, the same condescending expression that set him off months ago.
“I have some questions for you this time, detective. I should think that the gun pointed at your stomach would give you a good idea where I'm going to start.”
“Your wife?”
“Where is she?”
“No idea.”
Cullen gripped the pistol tighter.
“So, you're not going to deny that you were involved in her disappearance?”
“Should I?”
“I want to know where she is and how to get her back, detective. Helping me is probably in your best interest.”
Walker took a drag of his cigarette, exhaled smoke rings, and calmly raised the glass to his lips. Cullen felt sweat dripping down the middle of his back. A sweatshirt was far too warm for an August evening but was his only option for concealing the pistol.
“Have you ever sipped a fine single malt whiskey, Cullen? A bottle of this beauty would cost a week's pay, but every drink is worth it.”
“Are you hearing a single word I'm saying?”
“I am, and yes, I do know what is in my best interest.”
“Where.. is... Nora?”
“She could be anywhere in the world right now. Tell me, do you have the slightest idea what you're up against.”
The detective was either stalling or toying with him. Growing infuriated, Cullen thrust the pistol into Walker's sternum, trying to hammer the point home.
“I should kill you now for what you did to me and Nora. And whose body did you burn in the woods?”
“A drifter. She didn't work out at the local stable and had to be put down. As for you two, don't take it personally. I just follow orders.”
Images of wicked abuses flooded Cullen's mind and seethed in his voice. “What do you mean
by stable? Are you managing some brothel in the city where you keep women hostage?”
He lowered the gun to Walker's groin. The bastard was unfazed and even chuckled before lifting the cigarette to his lips again. One last pull and he flicked the butt, with its burning ember, out into the river below. Walker downed his whiskey and placed the empty tumbler on the deck’s railing.
“Nothing of the sort, Cullen. As I said, you have no concept for the enormity of what you face. I was given an order to take your wife. She serves a purpose well beyond the meager existence you promised her.”
“You're going to take me to the stable.”
“No, I'm not.”
“Stop pissing me off, detective. I need you to find Nora, and that's the only reason you're alive right now.”
“Do you honestly think I let you corner me? We’re all marionettes dancing on strings, Cullen. And, if it’s any consolation to you, I had no idea it was you or your family in that house.”
Walker's eyes flicked over Cullen's shoulder, and he heard the patio door open behind them. Cullen closed in, keeping the gun out of sight at chest level.
From the sound of it two men had stepped out, complaining about the Brewers’ lousy pitching. Cullen heard the rasp of lighters in the background. The threat of discovery stole his attention for a moment, and he missed Walker’s move.
The detective’s left hand seized the back of Cullen’s neck in a vise-like grip. The right clutched his gun hand. Panic shot through him, but the detective did not attempt to disarm or disable him.
Instead, Walker bent his head to Cullen’s right ear and whispered, “It’s time for you to run now. Go find it yourself. The Grove out on county Q. Let’s hope that next time we meet as friends.”
Walker yanked the weapon up and under his chin, the thumb struck Cullen’s trigger finger, and the ensuing blast from the .45 blew red mist and gray matter into the rushing waters. The detective's upper body tipped backward and teetered for a moment on the railing before tumbling outward. Though temporarily deaf, Cullen detected exclamations ringing in the background.
